Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“You’re right. I’m just hot,” I say, then lift my chin high.
“So hot,” they say together.
And we drink wine, eat cheese, and get lost in the lavender maze.
38
THE POP-IN
SAWYER
I can count on one hand the days in my life that I’ve slept in. I can count on one finger the times I haven’t had the energy to get out of bed—and that was the morning after my last triathlon.
Which feels pretty fucking understandable.
Trouble is, it’s Saturday morning, I have to perform a goddamn fucking song and dance tonight in front of the entire town, and I also have to work today—since everyone else is going to be working late tonight, and it’s only fair.
But what am I doing?
I’m lying in bed, scrolling on my phone for cheat codes for Halo.
I should be running. I could be swimming. I could even be walking my dog—although he definitely seems to be enjoying this lazy morning, since he’s lying on his back with all four legs sticking up in the air as he snores.
I’m trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get through tonight. At the theater. Singing and dancing in front of the whole town while wishing I were with Chloe, and knowing it’s all so stupidly risky.
My phone buzzes with a text message. I click over to it so fast, hoping it’s Chloe.
But it’s my dad.
Dad: This is your fair warning. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
What the hell? I thought he was just coming tonight. I tap out a reply.
Sawyer: Why are you coming now?
Dad: Is that any way to greet your father?
Sawyer: Hello. Why are you coming now? I have to work.
But he doesn’t reply. My phone is deathly quiet. And yeah, I could call him and ask why he’s coming early, but you can’t stop a hurricane.
I throw off the covers, drag my ass out of bed, and take the world’s fastest shower—which I definitely do not sing in. I don’t practice the song I’m supposed to sing tonight.
And I don’t sing anything else either. Not Oasis. Not the Backstreet Boys. Not Poison. Not Bon Jovi. Not Journey. Not Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time”—which is a really amazing song, and I love singing it, but I can’t even muster the energy for that.
When I get out, I run a towel over my hair, slick on some deodorant, then pull on slacks and a polo. I head to the door and swing it open just as he’s trotting up the steps. Mister Dog rushes over, wiggling in submissive excitement.
“Hey, buddy,” my dad says, walking inside and closing the door behind him. “I was hoping to meet my grandson soon.”
“Hi, Dad,” I say, and after he and the dog say hello, I shoot him a curious look. “You haven’t done a pop-in in a long time.”
“I believe the last time was about a year ago. When you told me about that little smartwatch incident,” he says, then points at me. “Your words. Little smartwatch incident.”
I drag a hand down my face and over my beard. “Yep. I remember now. I texted you, and an hour later you were there with breakfast.”
When I look down, my father’s holding two cups of coffee and a bag of bagels.
“What I’d really like to know is—how do you know?” I ask.
He shoots me a look like I can’t be serious. “I heard about what happened at Dog Day Afternoon.”
“Word got back to you?”
“We have the internet in San Francisco.”
“I know, I know,” I say, sitting on the couch and scrubbing a hand across the back of my neck.
He thrusts the bagel and a coffee cup at me. “Let me guess. You feel like you messed everything up.”
I feel like I’ve been gut-punched. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
“Am I wrong?”
I sigh. “You’re right,” I mumble as Mister Dog settles down on the floor, curling up into a dog ball.
I take a sip of the coffee and then a bite of the sesame bagel—and damn, it’s good. A little sweet, a little salty, and just the right amount of chewy.
“You like it when things make sense. You like projects to be neat and organized. I had a feeling things didn’t feel so neat and organized, so I wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“A do-over,” I blurt out.
I don’t mean just of the dog event. Or Chloe. Or the goddamn viral video.
I mean of everything.
“So, let’s break it down,” he says.
I turn to him with a wry smile. “Like it’s a business problem we need to find a solution for?”
“Yes. Why do you feel like you messed everything up?”
That’s a good question. I mull it over as I take another bite of the bagel, and when I’m done, I say, “I want to do things the right way. Like you taught me. When you left the business, Dad, you left it in my hands.”